Leaving Neverland
by L. M. Lachance
Summary: Draco's growing up, but he made it a bit more difficult for himself; he killed his old man. Now he struggles with brand new feelings, like lust, awkwardness, sympathy, maybe love. DracoOC.
1. Chapter One

Naturally I don't own crap. I mean, would any of us even _be_ here if we owned the stories? No! We'd be on beaches in Sarasota with a notebooks and pens, playing with the stories we owned while attractive topless men brought us ice creams and sodas, am I right? Of course I am. Anyway, you read the summary so you know the deal. Now read the story, and be sure to review it in the end. I might even leave a note for you in the next chapter, so get excited.

* * *

Draco lay on his back, staring up at the drab, white ceiling. Before he'd hated muggles–but now he pitied them as well. To live in such a boring world, stuck in such an unchanging environment day after day . . . he was starting to understand why so many of them chucked themselves off bridges. He missed the use of magic–but funnily enough he missed the unpredictable, fast paced wizarding world even more. To live with this constant tedium! Staircases and rooms were stationary, people did not apparate and disapparate with the blink of an eye–even the TV shows muggles were so fond of played the same episodes over and over again. In less than a week he'd seen the same bloody Seinfeld story three times! Whatever the hell a Seinfeld was. He still hadn't figured out if it was an actual person, or merely some cock brained title meant to confuse people.  
  
Six full days of confinement in a hotel room from hell had left him sick, sick and bloody tired of the muggle world (or at least, even more disdainful of it then he had been) but there was no alternative. If he left, the Death Eaters would find him and slaughter him before he reached the ripe young age of seventeen. Pity he'd gotten into such a predicament. This really wasn't how he'd expected to spend the summer holidays, with no company and no real life left in the wizarding world, at least, not until it was time to go back to Hogwarts, his last safe haven. In all actuality, he'd rather fancied spending time at a resort in France, away from home and his parents, relaxing for once in his damn life.  
  
It was probably the seventh hour he'd spent on his back that day. Earlier in the morning he'd gone to the pool (an over chlorinated puddle of water to the right of the lobby) and done laps to work off some energy. And he had ventured out into the street around noon, to get a sandwich. But beyond that there was only the ceiling, and plenty of quality time with his thoughts.  
  
Though truly, he was waiting for the mail. He wasn't expecting anything specifically . . . but he was hoping for some word from Dumbledore. Something about leaving the hotel, perhaps, moving on to some place a little less solitary? God, how he longed for a letter like that. It was all he thought about–when he wasn't busy thinking (or dreaming fitfully) about what had landed him in this prison.  
  
And that's exactly what it was. A prison. Dumbledore tried to tell him that it was for his own good that he stay hidden, that he was protected as long as he was away from London, and the wizarding community. But Draco knew better. This was punishment. This was what he deserved. This is what happened to people who killed their fathers.  
  
Not that he wanted to think about that at the moment. Or ever, for that matter. Yes, if he could just avoid thinking about it for the rest of his life, that would be excellent.  
  
Another hour passed, but there was no flutter of wings outside his window, no clicking of a beak on glass. There was no post today, and he would spend another day in the miserable place, and probably several days after that. He was trapped.  
  
Springing up from the bed, he could sit no longer. The walls were closing in, not just in the room but in his mind. He couldn't leave the street he was on, he couldn't venture into the magic realm of things but he could at least get out and have a walk, get some air. Maybe stop at the café on the corner, even if the place reeked of tourists . . .  
  
Pulling on a black overcoat, even if it was the bloody summer, he closed the door to his room behind him and stepped quietly down the hall. He did not like to draw attention to himself. Eventually the management would become curious as to why he'd spent six days camped out in their crap hotel. Dumbeldore had warned him of this. People would start to think he was one of those muggle crooks, one of those "drug dealer" blokes, or a killer, maybe.  
  
And he was a killer. But not the kind in a trench coat, brandishing a rifle like on the TV. He was a killer the muggles had yet to fathom. A handsome, sixteen year old boy who'd murdered his own father–his own flesh and blood!–with a ten inch long stick made of willow.  
  
He was in hiding, not only from the villains of his world, but from the meddling muggles, too.  
  
The night air was cool on his face, which was flushed from the stuffy hotel room. He set off in the direction of the café, feeling a little upbeat just to be out for no good reason other than he damn well felt like it. There were a few other people strolling about, shady looking characters mostly, who made Draco glad that he'd carried his wand with him. Yes, he'd sworn to Dumbledore that he wouldn't use magic as it would only draw unwanted attention to him. But he felt safer with his wand and if the need arose . . . he wouldn't hesitate, even for a second, to defend himself.  
  
The café was quiet but rich with the vibrant aroma of coffee. Draco liked coffee, liked a strong brew. His mother had always hated that about him–but of course, he was trying not to think about her.  
  
He got a mug full of the darkest looking stuff he could find and settled at a table near the window. The view was different here than from his hotel room, and the café was not the same drab white. Draco felt he could spend a good deal of time just sitting there, enjoying the change. It was so good to be away, unbelievably good.  
  
But the café, like any normal establishment, had closing hours. And at midnight he and three others (a girl pouring over text books, periodically raising her drink to her lips, and a couple drinking nothing at all, but chattering animatedly the whole time about art, literature, music and politics). Draco rolled his eyes at the opinionated, self righteous pair, ignored the all too Granger-like student, and felt much, much older than sixteen. In fact, for a moment he felt as though he were in his fifties with his whole life behind him, someone so hopeless that he had to watch others for entertainment.  
  
Damn. And he'd felt so good sitting there, too. Shame he'd had to spoil it with the realization that his life was, in fact, ruined.  
  
The street was dark, just a single light still lit, illuminating the gray, story book cobble stone that paved the way. As he made his way back towards the hotel he realized that his surroundings were becoming seedier–he was staying in the trashiest joint in town.  
  
Then, out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention. It was a cardboard box with the word "Kittens" scrawled across the front in black magic marker. But there were no kittens left. The box was empty. Or at least, that's what Draco thought until a fuzzy black head breached the box's walls and proved otherwise.  
  
He stared, surprised and inwardly delighted at the little thing. True, he'd never liked animals but this was so unexpected that, after almost a week of absolute monotony, he found himself approaching the box, crouching down, and looking the cat in the eyes. It was scrawny, and it's fur was gone in some places, like maybe it had been the subject of kitten litter bullying. Highly unattractive, with greenish yellowish eyes too big for it's skull, Draco realized that this cat was the runt of it's family, and had been deemed undesirable by all passers by. It was unattractive, weak, and malnourished and he liked it right away.  
  
Because this cat had nerve contradictory to it's status. It did not cower at his approach, it did not hiss with feigned bravery. It merely stared back at him calmly, knowing that maybe the boy watching it would show kindness, and maybe he would not. And if the boy did not, the kitten knew, he would become acquainted with a set of sharp claws.  
  
Draco smirked, still watching it with some admiration. "You're an ugly little thing, that's for certain. But it would be a pity to leave you here in this alley, alone in the dark."  
  
He was aware that cats were nocturnal, that the kitten would not mind the dark in the least. But his own fears of the night drew sympathy for the creature from the back of his heart and without thinking more on the matter, he scooped up the small animal and dropped it carefully into his overlarge pocket.  
  
The cat, which was entirely black, blended well with Draco's coat and rode quietly, not drawing any attention to itself as they passed through the lobby, past the night clerk. This, too, was to be admired, Draco felt, and he scratched the cat affectionately behind the ears as they took the elevator to the second floor. What a waste of machinery and time, Draco thought of the elevator, when one could just apparate.  
  
He pulled his key from his jeans pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed inside. He was hit with the all too familiar smell of old cigarette smoke and cleaner, and his stomach twisted with agony. He could not wait until school started up again. His appreciation for Hogwarts was mounting with each passing day. After all, it did not stink nearly this abominably . . .  
  
He realized, with some shock, that he was actually quite tired. The kitten needed food, and water and care . . . but it was not long until the morning and the cat was purring quite contentedly from his pocket, like maybe it could wait.  
  
He scooped it out and set it rather clumsily on the bed spread. Then he stripped down to his boxers, and fell onto the mattress, next to the cat.  
  
His mother, Narcissa, had always been fond of cats, particularly white ones. But his father hated them and if there was ever a litter . . . they would be disposed of. So aside from the spoiled, pampered felines his mum had kept, he did not have much experience with the species. Why had he brought the thing back with him again? He shrugged, not really knowing. At least it would provide something to think about and tend to. It could be weeks before he got out of this wretched place and it would be nice to have company, even if the company was small, furry, and ragged looking.  
  
Scooting towards the pillow Draco closed his eyes and began drifting off to sleep but before he slipped entirely into the unconscious he felt a warm ball of fur press against the back of his neck, burying it's face in his hair. He chuckled, stupidly tired by now, and slept at last.


	2. Chapter Two

Ahem, Ahem. My promised notes to the reviewers.  
  
To the unregistered reviewer: Thanks. Your cowardly unsigned review was equally cute, and equally amusing. In a moderate way of course. And P.S. I resent the use of patronizing review tactics.  
  
The Miss: Butt raping goodness? I don't plan on using rape at all in my story, and as far as the butt thing goes, Draco's too beautiful for me to give him away to Harry. So I don't think this is gonna be slash. I'm really sorry for the disappointment, I didn't realize what a letdown it would be for some people.  
  
Ryo Akuinnen: I like kittens too, and while I wasn't aiming for a cute, I'll take that over "moderately amusing" and lacking "butt raping goodness". So thanks.  
  
And now more story . . .  
  
Draco woke the next morning when the cleaning lady entered his room. Cleaning girl, actually. She couldn't have been more than a year or two older than him. He considered it fairly rude of her to just barge in on him like that—but she'd done it several times before, as she could not just sit around waiting for him to leave.  
  
She could carry on a little more quietly, however, and less huffily. Ever since the first day when he'd snubbed her completely (she was a muggle after all), after she'd spent nearly an hour eyeing him hopefully while dusting, she'd been a pissy little strumpet. Downright annoying, even, bursting in whenever she felt and making a show of ignoring him.  
  
"Oh!" She let out a cry of surprise. Turning to him, she said, "You're not supposed to have pets here,"  
  
"What?" Draco stared at her, confused for a moment. Then he saw a fuzzy black tail flick near her feet, and remembered the box, the dark street, and the shabby little kitten. "It's not a pet," He quickly explained, sitting up. "I found it. Last night. And I didn't want to leave it in the streets,"  
  
The girl flashed him an admiring look and scooped the cat up in her arms, turning away from him. Then, much to Draco's amusement, she began speaking to the kitten in a high pitched, mothering voice. "Aren't you darling, sweet baby, sweet baby kitty–,"  
  
"He's not a very pretty cat," Draco acknowledged, sitting up in bed.  
  
"Oh, you're wrong," She giggled, facing him again. "You're wrong about two things. First, you called it a him and this kitten is most definitely a she. And she's gorgeous, too, aren't you kitty baby? What are you naming her?" She asked Draco.  
  
"How should I bloody know?" He snorted.  
  
"Do you anything about kittens?"  
  
"No, not really."  
  
Sighing with annoyance, the girl set the cat on the bed and made for the door. "I'll be back," She announced.  
  
Draco eyed the cat as it strutted confidently across the covers. "You think you're real special, don't you, cat?"  
  
Ignoring him, it turned a circle then settled near his leg, apparently ready for a morning nap.  
  
"Well you can forget that idea," Draco said sternly. "I've got to get up and tend to some things, namely you and all the trouble you're going to cause me. So don't even think you can use my leg as some sort of–nap cot!"  
  
"You tell that cat," The cleaning girl returned, carrying a saucer and a carton of milk from the buffet in the lobby.  
  
Heat rose in Draco's pale cheeks, but then he remembered that this girl was a muggle and accordingly inferior. He forgot his embarrassment at being caught conversing with the cat.  
  
"It'll drink milk until it gets a little bigger . . . after that it just needs water and you can pretty much rely on it to find it's own food, if there are mice around at least. How long do you plan on staying here? Because if it grows up here then there'll be plenty of mice–,"  
  
"I don't know how long I'm staying," Draco admitted. "I haven't heard from–I mean, I haven't decided yet."  
  
"Ah," She sat down on the corner of his bed and poured a little milk onto the saucer. Poking the cat awake, and trying to entice it she continued, " And what's brought you here to begin with? You seem too young to be on your own just yet."  
  
Draco searched his mind for something to tell her, something that wouldn't arouse suspicion. "I–my–me and my parents had–a row," he finished, stumbling.  
  
"Oh," She nodded understandingly. "That's too bad. When I was seventeen me and my mum had an awful row, and I haven't been back there since. You should go back. Let you parents take care of you for a few more years at least."  
  
Well I would, Draco thought. If I hadn't killed my father and driven my mother away . . .  
  
"What's your name?" The girl asked, stroking the cat's back as it lapped from the saucer.  
  
"Thomas," He lied.  
  
"Well, Thomas, I'm Bridget and I think you're a bloody liar. But I understand how it is. When you're on the run you don't want your name spread around too much."  
  
The muggle was sharper than her round, innocent features suggested, Draco had to hand it to her. She understood the way his mind worked, to an extent.  
  
Eager for a change of conversation, he asked, "How long have you been working here?"  
  
"Oh," She glanced around the room uneasily. "About four months."  
  
"What did you do before that?" He asked.  
  
"Nothing good," She replied sharply, looking away. Draco had made her uncomfortable. So much for having the Malfoy womanizing traits. He'd have to work on his skills . . .  
  
But do I want to seduce the muggle cleaning lady, he wondered, shaking his head. "Do you live in town?"  
  
"Yeah," She smiled. "I live about a block from here with some friends. It's a modest place, but it's home."  
  
"Ah," He nodded.  
  
"And what about you?" She wondered. "Where are you from?" Seeing the look of concern on his face she added assuredly, "Don't worry. I won't rat you out to the police or anything, or contact your parents. It's alright to tell me."  
  
"London," He answered (A/N: I don't know where Draco lives. I'm making it up. This is B.S.) vaguely.  
  
She gave him a skeptical look but did not question the matter anymore. Standing, she sighed and said, "I need to get back to work,"  
  
"Oh," He stood, too, suddenly ashamed of the mess he'd made. "Don't bother with my room. I can take care of it myself."  
  
"Are you sure?" She checked, peering at him curiously.  
  
"Yeah," He nodded. "Go on,"  
  
"You're cute, kid," She smiled. "Come to lunch with me today. We'll have sandwiches at the café at twelve, when I get off work. My treat."  
  
"Noon?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
"All right,"  
  
Draco spent the rest of the morning furiously cleaning his hotel room, showering, and doting on the kitten. She was not a beautiful cat, or particularly soft or friendly, but at the same time he was growing extremely fond of her.  
  
"And what shall I name you little girl?" He lay back on the bed and set her on his chest. "Mab, maybe, after a great witch of the past? Or Nimm? If you were a boy, sweet cat, I'd name you Mordred. Or Oscar! But you're not a boy, are you? I could call you Le Faye. But you're not that either. Morgan Le Faye was beautiful. I think Nimm will do it, how do you like that, little thing?"  
  
The cat lay down and began licking her paws, purring quietly. He stroked her velvety head, deciding that he'd tell Bridget the new name at lunch.  
  
Then he dropped his hand and blinked, hard, realizing that he had a lunch date with a muggle.  
  
A beautiful, smart muggle.  
  
But a muggle nonetheless.  
  
But he liked her.  
  
But what would his father think?  
  
His father was stone dead.  
  
And who's rules had those been anyway? Only Lucius'. There had never been any justification for avoiding and disdaining muggles. Was there anything really wrong with them? Was the fact that they couldn't do magic enough to make them unworthy? Suddenly Draco realized that he had a lot of rules to question. The unspoken guidelines to being a Malfoy . . . but he didn't have to be a Malfoy anymore, so which of the guidelines would he keep and which would he . . . toss out?  
  
He'd toss the muggle rule. He liked Bridget too well to blow her off at lunch. He would go. He would be friends with her until the time came when he had to leave. If that time ever came. Facing this possibility for the first time in the day light Draco felt an unmistakable sense of mourning. Was he going to lose the wizarding world in order to survive? Would all of his friends be muggles in the future? Would he . . . would he become a muggle, live one of their lives?  
  
He shook his head, and glanced at the clock. It was time to go.  
  
"Can you hold things down while I am gone, Nimm?" he fixed his cat with an expectant stare, inherited directly from his father.  
  
The cat stood and leapt off his belly.  
  
"Good. I should be back in an hour,"  
  
Not that the cat cared. But it felt nice, telling someone where he was going. As if he had someone who was genuinely concerned. 


	3. Chapter Three

Her hands were fastened securely around his waist and she was nuzzling his neck in a way that he greatly enjoyed. He and Bridget had spent the last couple of hours conversing in the café before returning to his room and now? Now he had her pinned against the door.  
  
He leaned in for a kiss, taking her lips captive. He hadn't kissed many girls—only Pansy Parkinson and some third year tramp who'd crawled up next to him on the couch one night, and he didn't like either of them so it had been less than thrilling. But this---kissing Bridget, who was not only older than him but far more attractive than either of the girls he'd previously snogged—was wonderful. Possibly the most exciting thing he'd ever tried.  
  
She pulled away, eyes closed, and sighed. The freckles dusting the space beneath her eyes stood out to him particularly at this moment, so sweet and pretty for a girl who could make him feel, well, dirty. Like he wanted to try something. He DID want to try something. He went in for another kiss, and this time mastered the art of using his tongue, running it across the ridges of the top of her mouth.  
  
"Unh," She moaned, very quietly, but it was the okay Draco needed. He gently slid his fingers under the bottom of her shirt, and was just breaching the restricted area of her soft cotton bra when she pulled away, looking shamefaced at the floor.  
  
"I can't," She explained, turning red.  
  
"You have someone else?" Draco asked. He stepped back from her uncomfortably, unsure of what to do with his hands, which now felt highly conspicuous after making the dark, hot trek up her belly.  
  
"No," She answered, shaking her head. She shut her eyes tightly, like maybe she would find the words she wanted to say on the insides of her eyelids, like maybe it would come to her if she pressed them shut hard enough.  
  
"I'm a bad kisser then? I moved too quickly? You just–you just don't like me?"  
  
"No, it's not anything like that. You didn't do anything wrong, and I like you and you're certainly not a bad kisser—have you kissed a lot of girls before me?"  
  
Draco shook his head with a smirk.  
  
"Oh, well," She blinked several times. "It's only . . . it's only I realized how young you are. Not because of anything you did—you were every bit as mature as any twenty year old I've been with. But I looked into your eyes, Draco, and they're still . . . pure."  
  
Draco laughed. "My eyes. My eyes looked pure?"  
  
"Yes," She nodded. "And it was beautiful, and special, and I can't be the one to take that away from you."  
  
"I want it taken away. By you, Bridget, I like you,"  
  
She laughed. "You don't know what you want. You're only sixteen."  
  
"Oh yeah?" He stepped towards her and placed a hand on her hip. "Well regardless of whether I'm wrong or right I want you."  
  
Was he saying the words because he meant them or because he was curious about taking a girl to bed? How could he be sure that she wasn't right, that he didn't know what he wanted?  
  
She kissed him on the cheek. "I'll be your first disappointment Draco. I'll be the first girl to tell you no. But worry not. If you kiss other girls like that, and seduce them the way you tried to seduce me things will work out for you, I promise."  
  
Seduce her. Had he tried to do that? Yes, he had, and the very idea disgusted him. It was so much like Lucius, so much like his dear, dead old dad. The way he he'd smiled at her charmingly as he pinned her against the door, the way he'd tried to distract her with kisses wile inching his way towards her breasts. The way he'd taken hold of her, even after she'd said no, hoping to persuade her with his charming voice and the heat of his body. He was an ass. He was Lucius' son.  
  
"I have to go," Bridget picked up her purse.  
  
Draco sat down on his bed, staring blankly at the dull gray carpet.  
  
"Are you going to survive, love?" She asked, her cheerful, ringing voice only hurting him more. How could she be kind after he'd tried to trick her like that, tried to take advantage of her?  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"Then can I have one more kiss before I leave?"  
  
Her words stung but he obediently stood and approached her. She watched him for a minute, perhaps trying to decide what he was thinking. Then her hands found their way to the small of his back, and she'd taken him into a soft embrace. He found her lips and gave her his farewell without speaking. She was wonderful, she was perfect, she was a muggle—shut up, Draco—and she was going to leave. He squeezed her close to him, sighing with regret. Deep down he was glad that she hadn't let him . . . well, shag her. But things were still confusing and he couldn't decide which part of him he wanted to listen to more—the mature side, that said Bridget was right. Or the sixteen year old boy who said to hell with purity, go ahead and take her.  
  
"It figures!" A voice boomed from by the door. "Lucius' son would be trying to get a girl in the sack when we arrived. Like father like son."  
  
Draco let go of Bridget and turned to face none other than Alastor Moody, accompanied by a pixie of a girl with bright blue hair, both having just apparated.  
  
"Give him a break, Alastor," The blue haired witch scolded. "If you'll notice, the girl's a muggle. How do you suppose that would have sat with Lucius? You can't just assume Draco and Lucius clones."  
  
"The son of a death eater is just as bad as the death eater himself and a Malfoy's always a Malfoy. I still don't know why the boy didn't get sent straight to Azkaban, killing his father and all—," "You've wanted to see Lucius dead for years," The witch protested. "You ought to be grateful someone's finally done it."  
  
Alastor rolled his good eye, but didn't deny it.  
  
"Who . . . ?" Bridget stared at the pair, completely flustered.  
  
Alastor, who'd had his wand drawn since he'd entered the room, pointed it at Bridget and performed a quick memory charm. Bridget blinked, shook her head, then looked shyly up at Draco.  
  
He blinked back tears, and in a choked voice said to her, "You've done a first rate job cleaning this place, Miss. You may go now."  
  
Still dumbfounded, Bridget left the room.  
  
"Bye," Draco whispered.  
  
"Mew," Nimm crawled out from behind the bed, and Draco scooped her up, trying to gain some comfort from her black fur.  
  
"Gorgeous cat," The blue haired witch said admiringly.  
  
"I suppose you cursed it, eh boy?" Alastor said accusingly, magical eye spinning wildly in it's socket as if scanning the room for any dark magic. "Probably turned it into a killer."  
  
"Mad-Eye!" The witch yelled threateningly. "You're out of line. Dumbledore said we can trust this boy, and as far as I'm concerned, Dumbledore's word is superior to yours, so get off it."  
  
"Watch it, girl," Mad-Eye, spoke harshly. "You're talking to someone with more experience than yourself and if there's one thing I've learned it's that the apple never falls far from the tree—,"  
  
"Hi, Draco," The witch ignored him and offered Draco her hand. "I'm Tonks. And I'm sure you already know Mad—er, Alastor. We've been assigned to take you to a, erm, more secure location. So . . . pack up, I guess."  
  
Draco glanced around the room. Most of it was packed up already. He'd never quit hoping that someone was going to show up and take him away, he'd always been ready. Funny. Now that people actually had come for him, he really wished they'd just . . . pop off and leave him alone. And left Bridget alone. She'd never remember the time they'd had, she'd never remember his kisses, which she apparently thought were quite good (Were they really? How'd he managed that?). And he hadn't even got to say goodbye before they . . . well, wiped her clean of his presence.  
  
His heart leapt as he spotted a scarf near the door, something Bridget had shed as they'd stepped inside. The memory charm had deleted everything that had happened between them. So she didn't remember taking it off, and didn't think to look for it before she'd left. He leapt towards it in a movement that Mad Eye evidently found highly suspicious—Draco felt the wand thrust into his chest violently.  
  
"Don't try anything boy," Mad Eye growled. "I'll kill you in an instant if you even think to try anything—,"  
  
"I was just getting that scarf," Draco protested, pointing at it, pale cheeks going slightly pink.  
  
The magic eye spun, and Mad Eye nodded, seeing that there was indeed a scarf behind him. "Very well," He sighed. "But remember what I said—,"  
  
"I'm not going to do anything," Draco insisted. "I want to leave. I'm not going to try and hinder the process."  
  
"Forgive him, Draco," Tonks stepped forward, Draco's trunk hovering magically behind her. "In our line of work you don't meet a lot of people you can really trust. You have to be careful, and he's learned that the hard way."  
  
And for a brief second Draco saw Alastor not as the tough, vigilant, auror, but as a weary old man who'd had to live his life with constant suspicion because of people like Bellatrix Lestrange, Barty Crouch's mad son, Peter Pettigrew, and Crabbe, and Goyle, and—he acknowledged this last person solemnly and reluctantly—his father, especially his father, who'd threatened the life of the old auror hundreds of times, no doubt. So in a sick way it made sense that Mad Eye despised Draco. Draco understood how Made Eye could feel such a hatred for him when he barely knew him. Why, if Draco was in his place, he'd probably behave the same way.  
  
But it still wasn't right and it's still left Draco feeling like crap.  
  
"How're we getting wherever we're going?" Draco asked. Mentally removing apparating from the list of possibilities, as he didn't know how, and floo travel since it was too risky (anyone could be watching) he wondered aloud, "Brooms?"  
  
"You're a flight risk, boy," Mad Eye announced. "We have to worry about you escaping, and so we definitely won't be using brooms. No, we'll take a portkey and just pray we don't run into any trouble."  
  
"It's not a matter of us being concerned about you escaping, Draco," Tonks threw Mad Eye another scathing glare. "It's a matter of all of our safety. The skies are being closely watched and there are some people," She gulped nervously, and Draco got the feeling she was discussing the dark lord. "There are some people who can see through invisibility charms, and they'd kill us in moments. We think a portkey is less risky."  
  
Draco nodded, still feeling that guiltiness that came with doing nothing, but being suspected of everything. If someone truly believed that you were a bad egg, you started to feel like one.  
  
And it wasn't as if Draco had been feeling all that positively about himself to begin with. He was a murderer after all, guilty of using the unforgivable curse Avada Kedavra on his own father. Why shouldn't Mad Eye think he was rotten? If he'd killed anyone but Lucius he'd be a convict, sent to Azkaban. As the rest of the world saw it, Draco was dangerous, maybe even crazy. And Draco was starting to think maybe they were right. His behavior and his thoughts over the past six days had been frighteningly unstable, mental, batty.  
  
And he wasn't feeling anymore normal at the prospect of finally leaving the muggle world. In the course of ten minutes he'd been in the throes of passion with a muggle, apprehended by two aurors, made to watch that muggle forget him, and told to pack up so he could go to some . . . unknown "secure location". He was more screwed up than ever.  
  
"Here," Moody pulled an old, chipped Butter-beer bottle from his cloak. "Put your hands on it, you two, that's it. And on the count of three . . . ,"  
  
"Wait!" Draco lunged for the scarf, picking it up and stuffing it in the pocket of his roomy black coat, then setting the kitten on top of it. "Okay," He touched the bottle once more and then one, two, three . . . they were gone. 


	4. Chapter Four

Draco was not new to traveling by Portkey, but this trip seemed to take an awfully long time. At least thirty seconds passed before they landed at their destination, by which time Draco's head was spinning.  
  
"Why . . . ?" He groaned, feeling suddenly nauseated.  
  
"We had a lot of magical barriers to get through before we could arrive," Tonks explained, nodding at his obviously sickened state. "Makes for a bit of a rougher ride, if you know what I mean,"  
  
Draco looked around. They were in a somewhat shabby—but comfortable looking—house, in the entry way more specifically. A familiar portrait hung on the wall over the cloak rack, but it took Draco a while before he realized why it was familiar.  
  
It was of a stately looking witch with beautiful, dark eyes. Narcissa's eyes, his mum's. The woman was his great grandmother, Abigail Black, pride of the Black family. She was beautiful, but on the rare occasion that Draco had been in his mother's room, the woman had never had anything nice to say. She was bitter, cruel, and critical of every move made before her watchful eye.  
  
But she'd loved Lucius (as many women did) not only because was handsome and charismatic but because he was a pure blood, and filthy, disgustingly rich; a quality all "socially elite" wizards and witches held in high regard.  
  
"Murderer," She hissed disdainfully at Draco from her high position. "Filthy, traitorous, killer. Burn in hell, murderer,"  
  
Draco went red, and felt the back of his neck go cold, sweat breaking out over his skin. He prayed that he wouldn't start shaking, the way he had some nights.  
  
"Come on, Draco," Tonks gave him an encouraging shove towards the hall. "Real crap portrait, don't you think? Real ruddy complexion on that woman."  
  
But even as Draco left the entry way he couldn't help but notice that Mad Eye was staring up at the painting somewhat admiringly. His stomach twisted.  
  
Though not so much as it did when he made his way into the next room where Harry-bloody-Potter stretched over a couch, reading silently from a thin black book labeled, "Quidditch; The Art of Seeking".  
  
Harry looked up as Draco entered the room, and his mouth fell open with surprise. "Tonks," He looked to the witch behind Draco for an explanation.  
  
"Dumbledore wanted to move him here," Tonks said diplomatically. "For safekeeping."  
  
Harry frowned. "Oh,"  
  
Draco felt like scum. True, he'd never liked Harry. True, he'd treated him like crap. But now, as he tried to see himself through the eyes of The Boy Who Lived he realized he'd been nothing but a spoiled prat to Harry, and that even now, under the circumstances, Harry had no respect for him and probably thought Draco had killed his dad in a tantrum, Lucius having refused to give him his way or something. Not that Draco was going to set him straight. Only Dumbledore knew his real reasons, and Draco wasn't about to share them with the world. Even if people wanted to examine the case, label Draco guilty as sin . . . he wasn't going to explain the truthful circumstances because it was none of their damn business.  
  
"Hey, Harry, look at . . ." Ron Weasley stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Draco Malfoy standing in the living room. A glossy Quidditch magazine fell from his hand.  
  
"Draco's going to be staying here, Ron," Harry said in a low, dark voice. It was the voice of someone who was using great control to keep from shouting.  
  
"Ron, did you show him . . ." Hermione entered the room next, but a look of realization came across her face just as quickly as it fell . . . no one needed to tell her, Hermione was sharp enough to figure it out on her own.  
  
But it angered Draco that they'd had no warning. The shock on all of their faces made him uncomfortable and squirmy. Why hadn't someone TOLD them so they could make themselves scarce . . . if that was what they wanted.  
  
"Well, hello," He said quietly, almost inaudibly.  
  
Hermione was the only one to greet him back, and it made him even more sick than Bridget being kind to him after he'd tried to get into her bra. He'd treated Hermione worse than he'd ever treated anyone in his life. And here she was trying to make the best of things, using all the sympathy she could muster just to say hello to him. He was ashamed of himself, more so than he'd ever been in his whole life.  
  
"I'll take you to your room, Draco," Tonks said quickly, ushering him and the floating trunk along. "You can rest on a proper bed, instead of that sad muggle cot you had at the hotel . . ."  
  
The trio of Gryffindors stared at him as he left the room. Draco silently wished he'd just die already . . . life moved too quickly, and in the wrong direction. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.  
  
Tonks led him up several flights of stares into a slightly musty smelling attic with a large, old looking canopy bed in the center of the floor. There was a dresser in front of a boarded up window, and a picture of a lush green valley—the only aspect of the room that hadn't faded with age. But Draco sighed with relief. It was better than the hotel, much better. He could live in this room, be comfortable in it. He might actually sleep a whole night through . . . maybe.  
  
"Listen, Draco," Tonks let the trunk fall to the floor with a thump. "I know that this is . . . uncomfortable," She glanced back at the door and Draco realized even she didn't like being alone with him. "And it'll be hard, very hard for you. But keep in mind that school is coming soon. So this won't last . . . too long."  
  
Draco nodded. Tonks smiled, in an almost sincere, cheerful way. "Hang in there, kid. Things will get better."  
  
Draco appreciated the effort, but couldn't help but feel that it was as fake as her hair color. Things weren't going to get better. He'd committed a terrible crime, and was guilty of dozens more against Potter and his friends. No one could forgive him or even begin to understand why he was the way he was. It was pointless to even hope. He might as well forget about it.  
  
Draco reached into his pocket and pulled Nimm, who was sleeping, and the scarf out. Setting them both on the bed, he took off his coat and dropped it to the floor, slipped out of his shoes, took off his shirt, and slid underneath the thick comforter on the bed, scarf wrapped around one hand and Nimm sleeping on the other.  
  
He lay there forever, never closing his eyes.  
  
How could he sleep in the same house where Potter, Weasley, and the Granger girl were no doubt talking about his despicable nature, maybe even how they wished Lucius had got the better of him. Did they want him dead? Why not? He was of no value to them and he'd only ever caused them misery, and had he not just wished for death himself?  
  
Was there anyone who was glad he was still alive anymore?  
  
Draco shivered at the question and it's likely answer. He couldn't think like that anymore. He wouldn't make it if he thought like that. Or if he didn't get any sleep. Draco finally closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep rest, not quite peaceful—it seemed heavy and dark—but not the broken, restless sleep he'd been experiencing for the past several weeks.  
  
". . . can't we just have Tonks wake him?"  
  
"Tonks has being dealing with the prat all day. And she's gone now, anyway. We don't have any other choice. We've got to take care of the slimy little bastard."  
  
"Harry, Ron," A voice hissed. "If he's already awake he can hear you—,"  
  
"Like I care what he hears and what he doesn't." Ron snorted.  
  
"I feel crazy being the one to say this," Hermione began in a lecturing tone. "But I think we ought to . . . ought to give him a break."  
  
Ron gasped in disgust.  
  
"I'm not saying I want to be his new best mate," Hermione explained. "But it's possible this whole experience has humbled him a bit. It's possible he' not such a . . . ,"  
  
"Bastard?" Harry offered.  
  
"Shh."  
  
There was a knock on the door, causing Draco to leap out of bed and grab frantically for his shirt. Panicked, he pulled it over his head and called, "Come in,"  
  
Hermione stepped timidly into the room.  
  
"We're going to have dinner now," She said flatly. "If you're hungry you can come down."  
  
"Oh," Draco nodded. "Yeah, I'll be right there."  
  
"Alright," Hermione turned to leave.  
  
"Oh and thanks," Draco called after her, his cheeks reddening. He was presenting himself as the weaker, lesser person. Someone who'd just accepted help from a mudblood. No, not a mudblood. Just a girl. But nevertheless he was at their mercy now.  
  
She turned around, surprised, and Harry and Ron goggled, amazed, from the door.  
  
"You're welcome," She said, and went on her way, head held slightly higher.  
  
Draco opened his trunk and found a clean, non-sweaty shirt. To think; all that he'd already been through today and he still had a dinner with Potter and the Weasel to stare down. No, he mentally corrected. Weasley. And he would live.  
  
All the Weasley's (minus their own personal traitor Percy), plus Alastor, Hermione, Harry, and Remus Lupin sat around a large wooden table set with enough food for a group three times as large as the one partaking in the feast. Draco's stomach gurgled noisily, and every last person at the table looked up to see the cause of the intrusion. And it was him, Draco. He'd interrupted the happy little picture, and despite his hunger, he felt slightly sorry that he'd bothered coming down at all.  
  
After a moment of silence Molly Weasley spoke, "Why don't you have a seat, Draco?" She shot a look at Fred and George, and George reached behind him, grabbing an empty chair from in back, and dragging it into the space next to him.  
  
Draco walked slowly to the chair, feeling as though he was weighted down with lead.  
  
He served himself and ate slowly, tasting everything very carefully and finding it all to his liking. Most of the table watched him intently while they ate—Ginny Weasley had stopped eating all together and just stared, fixated as he shoveled roasted chicken breast into his mouth. It was scary—but Draco knew that this was part of the process, part of his punishment for being, just as Harry said, a bastard his whole life.  
  
"Excellent meal," He said softly, feeling very self conscious. "Thank you Mrs. Weasley."  
  
Mrs. Weasley looked pleased at the complement at least and gave Draco a half smile. "You're very welcome, Draco."  
  
Ron hmphed, and the twins rolled their eyes, but Draco felt slightly better. They hadn't cast any stones at him yet.  
  
As dinner ended, everyone helped with pickup, including Draco, who carried several stacks of plates (after all, there were quite a few people present) into the kitchen.  
  
Then Lupin and Mad-Eye departed, shouting their farewells to the eight Weasley's, Harry, and Hermione. Draco separated himself from the group, but nodded when Lupin glanced in his direction saying, "Take care,". They, like Draco, were trying to make the best of the fact that Draco was in their presence and while he still felt like offing himself, he did appreciate the effort.  
  
Then everyone congregated in the large living room, carrying books, and a chess board, parchment and quills, and Mrs. Weasley with her knitting.  
  
Draco stood there awkwardly for a while, but finally spoke, his voice cracking a little with the tightness of his vocal chords. "I suppose I'll head up for the night."  
  
They all stopped their activities and stared.  
  
I'm gonna fling myself out the bloody window, Draco thought as he stood there feeling stupid. Then, but wait, I can't. He reminded himself. These windows are all boarded shut.  
  
And then a miracle occurred, something Draco would never forget, would be grateful for all his life.  
  
"G'night, Malfoy," Harry said as genuinely as he could. And, taking Harry's lead, a few more mumbled "G'nights" and a "Sleep well," came from the rest of the family.  
  
Draco could feel his eyes aching, and he wondered why he felt so much like crying since nothing sad had happened. But it was happening, he was going to dissolve into tears.  
  
"G'night everyone," He replied, and left as fast as he could, running up the stairs, flying into his room, shutting the door and then locking it with a charm he hoped no one could break.  
  
And then he fell to his knees in tears.  
  
Draco hadn't cried since he was three, and getting spanked by his nursemaid for flinging hots coals at her. But now, at age sixteen, the tears poured out of him in heaving waves and they didn't stop for nearly half an hour.  
  
They did slow down enough, however, that he could crawl onto his bed and bury his face in the pillow.  
  
Not that he needed to. Draco was the kind of person who cried silently. His cheeks became damp and his eyes slightly red but he didn't make a sound. Burying his face in the pillow was just an impulse. In case he accidentally sobbed aloud. After all, he hadn't done this in fourteen years, and he wasn't quite sure what to expect.  
  
When it was finally over, he stood up, undressed, and climbed into bed. He didn't sleep—but he'd known that was coming. There were too many feelings clambering around inside of him, crying to be examined further. So he propped the pillows for hours of deep thinking, and lit a small light at the bedside. Because the dark promised dangerous and hurtful thoughts. If he could keep the small lamp going he might be able to get through the night without shaking, breaking into a cold sweat . . .  
  
Draco wondered if Harry felt like this every night. Did he think about everything for agonizing periods of time? Was his life so fast paced and out of control seeming that he had to set aside time just for sitting? Did he wake up when the room was black, screaming at something—someone, in Draco's case—that wasn't there, that was dead? Funny, how after only a few weeks he had new sympathy for everything the Boy-Who-Lived had been through.  
  
In fact, they had a LOT in common all of the sudden. Starting with the fact that they were both orphans . . .  
  
Well, Draco wasn't TECHNICALLY an orphan. Narcissa still lived. But she'd abandoned him completely and he didn't hold onto any hope of ever seeing or hearing from her again. She hadn't loved Lucius . . . anyone who actually knew and lived with him couldn't love him, because it was revealed to them what a monster he was. But there was still the remaining death eaters to worry about, and of course, the dark lord. If it appeared that she sided with Draco or helped him in any way, she'd be in just as much danger. Lucius had been one of Voldemort's favorites, and in order to avoid swift death she, too, would have been banished to that hotel.  
  
And then Draco would never have become intimate (well as intimate as you could get in just a few hours of conversation and brief snogging) with Bridget.  
  
Yes, Bridget, he hadn't dragged HER out of the memory closet for a few hours. Was it really just this morning that he'd been with her, talking to her, kissing her, touching her perfect, warm stomach . . . Draco stopped, picking up his last thought and looking at it a bit closer, trying to remember the details. No one had ever let him touch them like that, still kissing him with utmost trust and the tenderest of care.  
  
Not surprisingly his family had never been affectionate, and if Narcissa or Lucius had ever held him, hugged him, or kissed him . . . it was not in his memory. And Pansy, well, she WISHED that Draco would fondle her a bit. But she was unattractive in too many ways to count, and thinking about her didn't give Draco the electric jolt in his chest like Bridget did. He didn't get that warm, burning sensation in his stomach (and admittedly, his lower regions).  
  
Was it love? No, he'd known her for a remarkably short time. But it was his first serious infatuation, and he could not help but imagine what it might have been like if Bridget had let him bed her.  
  
Bed. Hadn't his been warmer the last two nights? What was missing?  
  
Nimm. His cat. Of whom he'd grown fairly fond, since she'd stuck with him through several of the hardest points, sweet furry beast . . .  
  
"Nimm?" He climbed out of bed and began looking around. He should have kept a closer watch on her, taken more care and notice of her. "Nimm, where are you kitten?" He clicked his tongue, hoping it would attract the small cat.  
  
But she wasn't under the bed or the dresser or in the closet. She was gone. His kitten was gone, and now he'd be all alone, facing his problems without so much as a fuzzy bundle to sleep next to . . .  
  
"Are you looking for your cat?" Harry stood in the doorway with the kitten in his arms, trying not to ignore the fact that Draco was in his boxers and keep a straight face. 


	5. Chapter 5

For a moment, Draco was filled with panic. For a moment, he could see Harry's face twisting with hate and his hands closing around the kitten's neck, snapping it just to spite Draco.

But this was only for a moment. Then Draco remembered that this wasn't something Harry Potter would do. His father, maybe. But not Harry. Harry gently set the kitten down, and attempted to smile at Draco, but it came out more like a grimace.

"I found him in me and Ron's room. He was sleeping on Ron's pillow."

"She, actually," Draco corrected him. "Her name is Nimm."

"Nimm," Harry repeated. "Where did you get her?"

"Dumbledore had me penned up at a muggle inn in this little village. I found her in a cardboard box outside of it." Draco explained. "I've only had her a day."

"Oh, yeah?" Harry nodded, and looked uncomfortable, like he didn't know what to say next. "That's . . . neat, Draco."

"Sort of, yeah." Draco nodded too, and felt himself continuing despite his better judgement. "Really wretched place. I was there for weeks. No one to talk to. Nothing to do. I was just laid up in there . . . thinking about—,"

"Things," Harry finished for him, enthusiastically, understandingly. "I know what you mean. That's how I feel when I'm with the Durs—when I'm with my aunt and uncle during the summer. There's just all this time . . . all this time and nothing to do with it but rehash everything that's happened."

So Draco's suspicions were true. It was the same for Harry. So strange that their lives had so much in common. So strange that probably they'd always had a lot in common—the dark, menacing antagonist in their lives who made them wish they never had to leave Hogwarts. And family who didn't understand it. Harry's aunt and uncle. Draco's mother.

"This is so surreal," Harry said, scratching the black mop on his head. "I never thought this would be happening."

Draco laughed. Out of all the things that had happened to Harry, this was surprising him! Harry laughed too, and then did something very strange. He walked further into Draco's room and sat down in a dusty old armchair near the empty fireplace.

"It's been kind of a hard summer all around, hasn't it?" He commented.

Draco nodded, and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Yeah. It really has." He knew Harry meant for both of them. Harry had lost his godfather. Draco had murdered his dad. Families across the continent were suffering in the new war. It wasn't easy. Nothing was easy anymore.

"I just want to get back to school." Harry said firmly. "When I'm there, it feels like nothing can touch me. At least for a little while."

"Yeah," Draco agreed. "But at the same time, even that will be hard."

"For you?" Harry blinked, and then nodded. "It will. It will be very hard. They're not putting you back in Slytherin are they? If they put you in there, you'll be murdered in your sleep—after what happened it won't be safe!"

Draco felt the color drain from his cheeks as the fears he'd been turning over in his mind for weeks were voiced for the first time.

"I'm sure Dumbledore has thought of that, though," Harry reassured him. "He'll make sure you're safe."

"Yeah," Draco looked down at his lap.

"I mean it," Harry said. "Nothing can touch us at Hogwarts, as long as he's there. He'll look after us."

"I hope you're right, Harry," Draco shrugged. Then, eager to change the subject, he looked up, "So how long have you been staying here?"

"Almost a month," Harry said. "Since my birthday. They always move me around on my birthday."

Draco smiled a little. "Has it been fun?"

Harry shrugged. "Mostly. Little awkward, too. "Ron and Hermione, you know. I think something's going on with them. Makes me feel a bit out of place and in the way, if you can grasp it."

"Oh," Draco considered that for a moment. Granger and the Weasel. It was predictable. At the same time, it was right.

And he wasn't the Weasel. He was Ron, Harry's best friend.

"Do you have a girl on the mind?" Draco asked, curiously. It had never occurred to him that the Boy Who Lived could have an interest in women too, but they had plenty else in common. It was plausible.

"Oh," Harry's face flushed. "Oh, well, I, you know, erm, it's possible that I could be thinking about a girl or something, but you know,"

"Yeah," Draco agreed. "I know,"

"You do?"

"Of course," Draco nodded.

"Pansy?"

Draco laughed, the hardest he'd laughed in weeks, the first he'd laughed in weeks. "Harry," he gasped. "Have you seen her? Have you spoken to her?"

"Well, it seemed like you were pretty fond of her—,"

"She was good for a snog now and then."

"Who were you talking about then?"

"Who were you taking about?" Draco asked.

"Well, you know . . . it's not that I obsess about her, or that I'm really interested and of course, if I tell you, I'd rather we didn't discuss it much, but over the summer her hair's grown out, and she's filled out a little bit, and she's older and smarter, and funnier, and she has this way making me feel like it'll be okay in the end, and so maybe I think about Ginny from time to time. You know. Just a bit."

Draco smiled, and looked at the floor while Harry's face went from pink to scarlet.

"So who were you talking about?" Harry demanded.

"I . . . ah," Draco sighed. "I'll never see her again. But while I was at the inn, I met this girl Bridget, and she was beautiful, and fun, and sharp as a tack. I wish I'd spent more time with her, if you know what I mean."

"Shagging her?"

"No, of course not!" Draco nearly shouted. "Why would you think that?"

"People talk like you really know what you're doing when it comes to girls. They say, at least, your father—," Harry stopped, and looked horrified with himself.

"Yeah, they do say that." Draco answered quietly.

"I'm sorry, Draco," Harry apologized.

"Don't worry about it," Draco shook his head. "The conversation was getting weird anyway."

"Yeah," Harry stood up. "I never thought . . . ,"

"Me either," Draco stood up too.

"Well, g'night then," Harry went to leave.

"Yeah, g'night," Draco echoed, and then, "You know, Harry, people say it about me . . . but it's not really true."

Harry stopped at the door. "It's not?"

"No. I've never . . . not with anyone."

"Yeah?" Harry looked over his shoulder. "Me either." He quickly left, closing the door behind him. Draco sat down on his bed, and looked at the carpet, knowing that Harry could go and tell Ron and the two of them could have the laughing fit of the century.

But at the same time, Draco knew that Harry wouldn't.


End file.
